YEAR OF THE CHICK SEQUEL: Free Excerpt Including: Pimp Reference, Dead-Body Smell...

March 27, 2012 — books, Dating, Entertainment, Funny, Humour, Love, Romi Moondi, Sarcasm, Self-Publishing, Sex, Writing, Year of the Chick

What romantic comedy WOULDN’T talk about pimp commissions from ho’s working overtime and dead-body smell that seeps from a corpse’s apartment?

Well…maybe all of them wouldn’t. But I don’t write typical rom-com’s, as loyal readers have by now gathered. Besides, AS IF I could post the normal, lovey-dovey, will-definitely-make-you-cry excerpts from the book on my borderline-insane blog? For that romance stuff you’ll have to pay, when the sequel comes out in June.

Meanwhile, after giving away over 13,000 free digital copies of “Year of the Chick” on Amazon last week (who needs money after all? Food stamps all the way), I figured I should probably post some progress from the editing I’ve been doing on the sequel.

Each of the free excerpts I post in the months leading up to the release (June!) will be ambiguous enough to avoid any true spoilers, but interesting enough to fondle the nerve-endings of your giant brain. Or so I hope.

Here, I give you an excerpt from Chapter One of the “Year of the Chick” sequel (and clearly I have yet to come up with a title for the book).

Setting: museum

Coolness factor of main character: low to non-existent

Sexual references: one

Decomposing bodies references: two

Enjoy.

R

***

When I opened the door to the Royal Ontario Museum’s foyer, street sounds were replaced with the excited chatter of museum revelers. The area was packed with school children wrapping up their field trips, and tourists just now piling in. I pushed past all of them, heading straight to the VIP queue.

A middle-aged woman with a long-forgotten grown-out perm (she’s obviously not getting bi-annual perms from her daughter like my mom), an oversized navy museum blazer, and a thin-lipped smile waited patiently, as I fumbled through my bulging wallet. Having a bulging wallet always made me feel important, like a pimp who couldn’t clip his stack of cash in a tidy bank roll, since his ho’s had been working so much overtime. Unlike a pimp’s commission though, my wallet was empty on cash and full of useless “points cards” instead, ones that would earn me a trip to Paris in approximately eighty years. I eventually filtered through the plastic, finding my membership card and handing it to the blazer-wearing lady.

“Most of our year-round members are seniors,” she mused, as her gaze switched from my photo to my not-so-senior face.

She handed back the card and nodded in approval.

Or pity.

It was unclear.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as I took in the possibilities. Dinosaurs to my left, South East Asia to my right, and my personal favourites up above (Ancient Rome, Ancient Greece and Ancient Egypt).

I decided to skip the elevator, opting for a curvy stone staircase with a totem pole in the middle. I stared at each face on the totem pole as I climbed the steps, with the full curiosity of the history-book-reading nerd I used to be. At home I had a bookcase stacked with everything from an entire giant book on Van Gogh, to about twenty different books on Ancient Egypt. Meanwhile I’d completely forgotten they existed for the whole of last year, so obsessed I’d become with finding a man. Now that the man-search was kinda-sorta-over (let’s hope), I was finally getting back to my roots. Which apparently made me the only Torontonian under seventy with a museum membership.

I made it to the third floor and entered the hall of Ancient History. Everything smelled a bit dead, but it wasn’t the kind of “dead smell” that would emanate from the apartment of a single person who hadn’t been heard from in days. Instead it was a “dusty mummy linens” and “disintegrating ancient bones” kind of dead. It was basically my aphrodisiac, right up there with a medium-ripe mango.

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